As the cool air carries the silence of the night, I find myself in a moment saved for those longing for peace. We cannot ask nor search for her: she will find us when we most deserve to see her. As I drove through the night, my eyes heavy with the stresses of the world, I blinked and found myself before the beauty of what could be. That night, she reached out a hand and beckoned me to follow: if only for a moment.
I had been taken to a place unknown to the presence of man. All the sights could be described with Earthly precisions, but their meaning holds so much more. I sat on a balcony overlooking a sleeping village. The stone buildings sighed with the weight of a hundred generations: their cracks earned from the years of history and time. The walls of these homes and shops held the ghostly remains of each life that passed through their doors. If the walls could talk, they would be able to share all the moments of each life that resided within their bounds. Like a statuesque scribe, these buildings not only sing of the past but are held together with the moments of what was. Simple buildings that, at first glance, would not seem out of sort in their current resting place. But at their core, they simply were so much more.
Cobblestone streets flow through the town like a once raging river, settled into normalcy through time. The feet that have walked these paths carry the weight of all of life’s troubles. Youthful ignorance, experienced traumas, and aged wisdom: each step is a march closer to their final bliss. And collecting all these steps these roads persist. Through holidays and drought, celebrations and mourning, they provide the path forward for each life that moves along their predetermined direction. Those that call this village home may never know when they will trod their last step on these old stone streets, but the stones will continue to record each moment of each life. Like a stone parchment in an ever expanding library, the stories they could tell can only be matched by the homes they lead to.
To the left lay the ocean; calm and motionless like a sheet of glass. The moon lay just above the horizon though it was neither sunrise nor sunset. It hung there, suspended above the water, like it was the final touch on a painting produced by an artist with a creative flare to rival mother nature. Resting just on the shore was a dock populated by a few small boats. A dock that may once have been the lifeline for the peoples of this place, now lay dormant for all but the most adventurous of minds. During the day the hustle and bustle of the docks may keep the fishermen paid and the sailors drunk, but there was no one here to witness this scene but I this evening. The boats gently jostle in the waves like a mother rocking her children to sleep. Even the most powerful of forces choose to be gentle in this place: like each spoke to the other to be on their best behavior this night.
To the right rests the forest that surrounds the outskirts of the village. An ancient place, built on legends as much as it is soil. A place that is as much as a playground for the children as it is the source of the creatures that go bump in the night. It holds treasures and dangers, lifelines and final resting places. As if God himself brushed the foliage onto the ground with His thickest paint brush, it stood as an ode to the chaos that is mother nature. As a foil to the organized beauty of the town, it holds its own allure that arises from the unplanned growth of all of life that calls it home. Again, maybe for this evening only, the calls of the wild remain silent. As if allowing me to experience what could be is somehow eliminated by the enormity of this place as a whole.
And yet my gaze is transfixed forward: to the town center. Across the way lies two monuments; one to humanity and one to God. A church, small and humble, yet one that could tell the life and death of all that have walked through its doors. A place where saints and sinners go shed the stress of the world and begin anew. A place where the poor and the rich share the same seats. A building that holds the birth of new life, the bonding of lovers and the final resting place of the souls long departed. Though most would simply see a building, yet I know that it holds so much more. Stone by stone, tile by tile, an ode to the powers that keep the world spinning and love us more than we could ever love ourselves.
Just outside the doors of this holy place, flanked by the now empty market stalls and decorations, rests a statue tying the whole image together. Who is the statue of? I cannot truly tell. Maybe a once great hero, a despot, a saint, or maybe of Christ himself. I suppose it doesn’t truly matter what the statue is, rather why it is. This statue, unlike any other object or building in this place, stands guard over the sleeping peoples of this place. A resolute guardian who, through rain and wind, sunrise and sun set, stands as a monument to the human condition. Or maybe just a vain attempt to appease whomever commissioned its construction. In this place, all stand still and silent, but only this statue stands resolute.
All of these sights I noticed at once: an overwhelming feeling if I were truly here in this place. But this was simply the backdrop for why peace had grabbed my hand and placed me here. I was not meant to take in the history of this place nor linger too long in some escape from my own toils. I was here to experience her. So in that moment I snapped back to myself and this little balcony of bliss.
Sitting on the balcony in some old chair, the cast iron railings surrounded me like those of an old jail cell. They were not oppressive in existence nor meant to trap me in this moment. They, like the rest of the things here, sighed heavy with age and stories. I may not have been the first person they surrounded on this balcony, but I am the one here now.
The chair was old, and were I sitting in it in any other place, it likely would have been the most uncomfortable chair in existence. But, if it was, I did not notice. In my left hand hung a cigarette: clearly it was on its way to ashing itself out but its ember held true, calling for me with its ever toxic siren song. Though I am certain no ill would have come from it here in this place. To my right rests a small table, one that would not seem out of place on an outdoor patio or veranda. It matched my chair, metal worn down to its core with age and use. But it held strong nevertheless. On it lay my glass: a small glass covered in the condensations of a quickly warming drink. In the amber drink inside the glass float three cubes of ice. They had been well on their way to diluting the drink as they began to round on their edges and take on a much more clear opacity. I had been well on my way to finishing the drink and cigarette, that much was clear. But again, in this moment they were simply a piece of the painting that would be easily overlooked by anyone other than the artist themself.
But on the table rested something more. And, as with all outdoor furniture, these chairs came in a pair. While the rest of the village and I remained motionless, a small cloud of smoke listed lazily across my gaze. I was not alone on this balcony: the purpose of this moment had become clear.
On the table, centered cleanly in the middle, was an ash tray. While my cigarette clearly needed to be ashed, I was unable (or possibly unwitting). And yet the ash in the tray continued to grow. On the far side of the table rested a long stem wine glass. Red wine slowly jostled in the bottom of the glass. The inside walls of the glass were stained with the crimson wash of a wineglass just swirled, though it seemed to not have been touched in ages. As I raised my gaze from the table to the other chair, the bright ember of another cigarette transfixed my gaze. Like a deer in headlights I could not look away: how could something so simple be so enigmatic? I was able to break the hypnotizing allure of this burning cigarette only to come to know why I had been brought to this place: her.
She sat, legs crossed and tucked underneath her, in the chair opposite of mine. A thin white shirt laid over her bare skin like the finest of veils over the most beautiful of artwork. The shirt was opened at the top: an invitation? A mistake? It is difficult to say though no animalistic feelings could be derived from this sight. The shirt laid softly over her milk smooth skin, as if two lovers embracing in a moment of true companionship. Each inch of the shirt laid loose and relaxed over her body. Though no details could be made out clearly, it was clear this shirt was her only defense against the wind that seemed to engulf her and her along.
Her hair flowed like the softest grains before a harvest: I felt no wind but the sight of her hair would seem to disagree. Her hair was blowing towards me, like a friend beckoning to come and take a closer look, but like before, I was unable. Her hair, silken and free of tarnish, could have easily been mistaken for the softest of silk hung to dry on the warmest of summer breezes.
She stared, transfixed, forward as if locked in an eternal contest of wills with the night itself. She sat unblinking, unflinching, as if her intentions were already made clear. There were no details to be made out of her face though it was perfect in every sense of the word. It is not that she had none, rather they must have been incomprehensible to me and my fragile mind. She exuded all of the feelings that one looks for in another human being: confidence, attraction, safety, comfort, beauty, love, understanding, elegance and flair. She continued to smoke her cigarette, only broken up by the long drawn sips from her seemingly never ending glass of wine.
She paid me no mind; not that she was being dismissive rather I was here to witness her and she knew that full well. She radiated a calmness and kindness not found in everyday life. She did not glow, but she was the most radiant flame in the heavy night air. She said nothing and yet I understood everything. She was teaching me a lesson and yet I knew not what I was to learn. And as quickly as the moment came and was experienced, she was gone.
I had returned back to my car, further along my route home than I had been previously. I had goose bumps, I was in a cold sweat and my heart was racing. Though at that moment I knew who she was: peace. Even if I never again am graced with her presence, I know that it is possible to be with her.
She is not to be chased, she is not to be replicated. I can only hope that I can live a life long and well enough to be graced with her presence once more.